


Sleeper

by Broken_Clover



Category: Guilty Gear
Genre: Gen, I'm being weird again, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24157462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broken_Clover/pseuds/Broken_Clover
Summary: You can tell a lot about your surroundings, just from the bed you lay in
Kudos: 2





	Sleeper

**Author's Note:**

> what the hell even is this and why did I spend so much time on it

A ceiling fan, spinning in lazy circles. Stickers of stars plastered on every surface, the kind that glowed in the dark when the lights were turned off. Walls painted in soft pastels, only further paled by years of sunlight shining on them. The lingering smell of mother’s cooking and the warmth of a November morning

The mattress was old and saggy, and the bedframe creaked when he rolled over at night, but it was home. So it was good. It was all he knew then.

The only reason he got up in the morning was because of his own excitement to greet the day. Why wouldn’t he be excited? It was another day to run around the fields, help mother with the crops, play in the sun with the dog.

As soon as he noticed the muffled humming from outside, he burst into a smile, shimmying out of bed and running down the hall, all the while still clutching his old, battered teddy bear.

“Mama!”

He barely came up past her knee, but her smile was bright and fond enough to be seen from so high up.

“Hi, sweetie! Aren’t you in a good mood?”

“Yeah-huh! What’s breakfast?”

“Miss Twain next door sent us some of her eggs, so how would you like some of that for breakfast?”

“Okay! Scramble, please!”

He doesn’t know how to have more than one thought at a time. He doesn’t realize how nice that was until he got older. It’s all so clipped and simple. Breakfast! Happy! Want to be with mom! Fluffy! Lila is here! Pet!

“Aww, looks like she’s happy to see you.” Lila’s almost as tall as he is. And so fluffy that he can almost lose a hand in her fur. “Go wash your hands. Breakfast will be done in a few minutes.”

“Ok!”

Nothing to worry about but basic tasks. The hardest part is dragging out a stepstool from under the sink so he can reach the sink to wash up. He watches mother crack eggs into a bowl and whisk them together. She’s really good at it. There’s something about the nice little movement of watching the whisk go round and round and round. It almost distracts him from cleaning up.

“Do you want cheese on yours?”

“Yeah!” She always asks, but the answer is always the same. He doesn’t really mind. He doesn’t know how to be mad for more than a few minutes. “Hands clean!”

“Good job!” She gives him an approving nod. “Now go sit at the table, it’s nearly done.”

Even if he did know how to stay angry, what was the point? By that point, he would already have breakfast. And how could anyone be mad when they had mother’s breakfast to look forward to?

++++++

An old ceramic light, likely gone unreplaced over the last decade or so. Sparse thumbtacks left behind by the previous inhabitants. Cobwebs in the top corners, just high enough to be out of reach, even while standing on the desk chair. The scent of a roommate’s take-out that never seemed to subside, even after the trash was taken out.

The dorm’s mattresses were stiff, but not too much so. Actually, it was quite nice. At least it made it easier to get up in the morning and prepare for classes. He can’t be late. Being late is bad. He knows mother is several thousand miles and multiple countries away, but he would still be able to feel her disappointment if he was late for class for no real reason.

He winces at the bedsprings’ creaking, but attempting to get up slowly and methodically only ended up being noisier. Eventually, he decides to bite the bullet and nearly rolls out of bed and onto the floor in one movement. Somehow, he still manages to catch himself before he hits the ground. 

He dresses in the dark, both for his roommate’s benefit and his. He doesn’t want to turn the light on and bother anyone. And when the light is on, he can see himself in the mirror on the wall. Everyone said puberty was supposed to even out when you got older, but at this point he was starting to give up on the idea. Still too spindly in some places, too dense on others. He doesn’t go together. 

Pants, socks, shirt- maybe he should wear the white one today? He pokes himself a few times before the earrings go in properly. It’s annoying, but not painful. He’s gotten a lot better at it that he used to. They’re an old pair of mother’s, a personal little memento she gave him before dropping him off on campus. They always looked nice on her. He’d like to think they look nice on him, too.

Backpack, backpack, where did it go? His shoulder feels stiff, maybe he slept on it funny. He trips over the lump of canvas in his distraction. At least the wall is in the way to keep him from going all the way down, though it does make an ungodly thump. He feels his heart freeze briefly, turning to look at his roommate.

Still asleep. Good.

It’s probably best if he leaves quickly. All the books were packed the night before, so he would be pre-prepared. He slips out of the room, stopping for a moment to free his bag from where it snagged on the doorknob, and closes the door quietly behind.

Alright, Statistics in room 415. 15 minutes to get halfway across campus. Sounds like more than enough time.

++++++

A bare-bulb light, stinging the eyes if it was looked at directly. A cracked stone ceiling that seemed ready to collapse with just the right amount of pressure. Scratched lines and crude graffiti to decorate the walls, presumably by the residents that came before him. The smell of mold and piss and decay and the sweltering warmth

His bed was nothing more than a concrete slab, but he didn’t want to get up. Getting up meant a lot of things- acknowledging that he was actually there, feeling the heat even more intensely on his raw skin, hearing his bones whine from the unpleasant position they had been stuck in for hours of unconsciousness and the inevitable pain that came from trying to move them anywhere else.

Something clanged against the metal bar, making him jump in shock. Just as he’d expected, a bolt of pain shot up his arm, all the more agonizing from the lack of time to prepare for it.

“You awake?” He knows the guard’s boyish but gravelly voice. His stern expression is there to greet him when he finally manages to sit up.

“Hnn?”

“Hey. Make yourself presentable. Attorney’s coming over later to review your case. Heading over to the office in 20, capiche?”

He’s gone before he can even reply. Not like it would matter much, he can’t exactly say no. When the words actually sink in, he groans and slumps back down. It’s the third time now. Their confidence in him is kind of comforting, but it’s hard to argue for an acquittal when he can’t even remember the last few weeks. He’s practically useless, but yet they still try to talk to him under some belief that he’d be able to give him something.

Do they know he doesn’t want to be here? Of course he’d help his own case if he could. But his head is full of fog more often than not, and most coherent thoughts are devoted to how much his body aches. He still has no idea what happened to put him in here in the first place. He doesn’t remember doing anything wrong...

No, that doesn’t matter right now. He has to keep his thoughts together, or else he’ll get fuzzy again. Right. He has to get ready to leave. He has to stay focused so he can give them what they want, answering the same questions over and over in a claustrophobic office or a too-big courtroom full of jury members gawking at him.

As much as he hates being here, that might actually be worse. Surrounded by people who find him an inconvenience at best if not an outright menace, feeling their judging eyes burning into his skull. At least here, he almost has his own space.

There’s not much he can do to make himself look better. He could strip down and scrub off with the soap they gave him, but the cell feels so vulnerable without any place to hide from view. He decides it isn’t worth it. They’re going to hate him anyway, what good would a little soap do.

So he merely sits on the bench, feeling the sweat roll down his back and the roughness underneath him, trying to block out the awful smell and the cool dread bringing on the first sensations of nausea deep inside him.

The sound of footsteps grabs his attention. The guard is back.

“Are you all ready?” The man eyes him, clearly disappointed in what he sees. “I thought I told you to clean up…”

His reply turns sticky and congeals in his throat before it can come out. All he can manage is a little flat noise.

“No point in wasting time, then. Attorney showed up early today.” The keys on his belt clatter as he finds the one to his door, and it squeals in protest when it finally opens.

Reluctantly, he stands up and approaches the only exit. A man in a too-crisp suit wearing a too-bright smile is there to greet him. He makes a little movement like he’s going to offer a hand, but seems to think better of it when he sees his client’s disheveled state.

“Good morning, young man! I’m going to do my best to help you out today! They’re already setting up over at the courthouse, shall we be going?”

“Sounds good.” The guard answers for him. Something blunt nudges the small of his back, probably the tip of a nightstick. “Go on, then. Third time’s supposed to be the charm, innit?”

The suited man makes an awkward little laugh, before gesturing to the hallway that led back towards the front entrance. “After you, then! I’ve got a good feeling about today!”

He really wishes he could go back to bed and forget it all.

++++++

A long, narrow bar of fluorescent light, stretching across his vision and beyond. A bleach-white ceiling and walls, scrubbed clean to the point where it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. An artificial cityscape of machines that he couldn’t decipher, even if it didn’t hurt to think. The smell of antiseptic and soap, and other things he couldn’t name.

The mattress was soft. Too soft. Not like anything he was used to. Uncomfortably soft. It makes him want to get up, but his body feels like it’s made of lead.

His face feels...wrong. Tight. Tender. Like the time when he was nine and the neighbor’s sheep tackled him in the face and gave him a nasty black eye. Is that what it is? But it’s oddly painless. He wants to touch it and see if it stings, but he isn’t sure his arms are actually attached to his body. He feels like that thought should worry him, but it doesn’t. It just doesn’t. Why does it matter?

Something shifts in the corner of his vision. Something dull and dark passes over him briefly, followed along by more. They rumble incoherently, drowning out the sounds of the machines like a thunderstorm drawing in. Should he let Lila in before it starts raining? She’s going to get all wet...

The movement continues. Shadows dance over him in a slow, asynchronous waltz. It’s beautiful. It’s awful. He doesn’t understand. Can anybody see him? He wants to reach out and touch them, but his arms are still somewhere else.

One of the shadows dips closer. There’s a pressure in the back of where his hand probably is, and it quickly turns into a stabbing pain.

“Hey- Just take it easy, okay kiddo?” A man’s voice, low but kindly-sounding. “Last round’s wearing off, so I’ll just give you a little more, alright? Make you feel nice and fuzzy on the inside. Just give it a minute to kick in.”

The words are meaningless to him. But the voice feels trustworthy. It feels safe. Not like he could resist or protest if he didn’t, but it’s reassuring nonetheless.

Shadows continue to slide back and forth, seemingly conversing in their echoey rumbles that feel so far away. The nice man was right, something about him feels even fuzzier than he was before. Slippery. Nothing matters. Any worries slip right off the freshly-waxed surface of his mind and fall into the void. So do most thoughts. It’s nice to not have the ability to worry about anything. It’s been a long time, he’s forgotten how it felt.

He doesn’t care what the shadows are doing. He can’t care. Caring requires energy and effort, and currently, he has neither.

There’s a gentle pressure somewhere else, but it’s hard to determine where.“Gonna head on over in just a minute, alright sweetie?” A different voice, a woman’s voice. It also sounds kind, but why is it different? Where did the nice man go? He wants the nice man with the voice like a sunbeam, but he has no idea where to look. What were they talking about, anyway? Did they need him for something? He was pretty sure that he wasn’t going to be of much use right now. Maybe he could apologize later, when he wasn’t- wait, what was he apologizing for, again? What was happening? And why were the walls moving?

He doesn’t have the brainpower to handle so much at once. By the time he can make out wheels clattering and the sterile white shifting into soft green walls, his mind decides it’s too much effort and shuts itself off.

++++++

Whitewashed walls, as if done more out of necessity than anything else. Faint nicks and scars across the walls and ceiling, gone unpatched and left to peel with time and humidity. Thin bars of metal crisscrossing like a chain-link fence across the glass. If he squints, he can make out a second set of crisscrosses running by outside, topped with loops of something shiny and pointy-looking. For some reason, just looking at them makes his arms ache.

The mattress makes an uncomfortable noise when he tries to move- although maybe that’s his stiff joints. It reminds him too much of college. It’s better than nothing, but that doesn’t mean it’s at all comfortable.

When he looks down, there’s something wrapped tight around his wrists. It’s different from handcuffs. Softer. Gentler. But no less confining. He gives it an experimental tug, but all it does is awaken a splitting pain in one of his arms. Trying to cry out is no more effective, his throat is too cracked and sticky. It’s all so very confusing, he’s only just woken up and already there’s a headache brewing. Or maybe that’s just from how his spine is bent. It’s hard to find a more comfortable position with how the restraints are holding him in place.

Where on earth is he? It isn’t anything like mother ever told him about. It seems far too clean for a jail, but too pointy and uncomfortable to be a clinic. It feels like a strange combination of both.

He doesn’t notice the door until the knob rattles. He isn’t sure what to expect, but his mind is convinced it isn’t going to be anything pleasant. But all that comes through the door is a rather ordinary-looking woman.

She immediately notices him. She makes a breathy little noise of panic and reaches for something in her pocket, but hesitates.

“How are you feeling?” She eventually asks

It feels like an odd question, given his circumstances. But it still feels polite to reply. He manages to creak out a ‘fine,’ with far more effort than speaking should take.

The woman winces at the sound, immediately moving towards something out of his view. “Sounds like you could really use a drink. Just a minute.”

It must be a spigot. He can hear the handle squeak and a rush of water. She comes back with a glass. Instead of undoing the straps and letting him do the job himself, she holds the end to his mouth and lets him drink.

“Sorry, I still can’t let you out of those yet. We need to be absolutely sure you aren’t a danger to yourself or others.”

A danger? He can’t imagine anything about him being especially dangerous. More often than not, he was too much of a doormat to ever shout at anyone. Is this some kind of bizarre joke? He doesn’t find it especially funny.

At least the water makes talking easier. “I don’t understand. Where am I?”

Someone starts screaming outside. Something about that immediately sets him off, and he’s writhing in place, heart hammering in his chest. _“WHERE AM I?!”_

“It’s okay! You’re okay! I’m not going to hurt you!” The woman shouts in turn, raising her arms. “This is a hospital!”

He’s not sure if he believes her, but he very quickly realizes that fighting is useless. And tiring. “What kind of hospital has beds like this?” He asks.

“It’s a safety measure. Like I said, it’s just to make sure you won’t start hurting anyone. Sometimes people get violent.”

“In a hospital?”

“It’s a special kind of hospital.” She gives him an odd look. “Do you remember how you got here?”

“Do I remember…” He trails off. Now that he’s thinking about it, what _is_ the last thing he can remember? College, mother, passing out in the woods...but how long ago was that? Oh, he can feel the headache coming back…

Something must be showing on his face. The woman looks at him sympathetically. “It’s alright. I know you’ve had a rough few days. I just came in to check on you. I can explain things a bit more clearly when your doctor shows up. But for now, just try and relax, okay?”

The concept is laughable. How can she expect him to relax with all this going on? But either she’s some kind of witch, or he’s completely exhausted, because as soon as he tries lying back down, he’s dozing off. He’s sure he can deal with everything later.

++++++

Dark-oak ceiling tiles, classy and prim but not too expensive. An energy-efficient ceiling light that draws auxiliary power from the main engine outside. A diamond-shaped scar on the middle-left tile, etched in by a thrown clipboard in a moment of frustration. A classy veneer muddled by a kitschy cat poster and Randy’s snores bouncing off the walls while he lays in a tangled pile of blankets, rumpled clothing, and drool.

It’s a nice bed. They let him pick it. If the feds were going to keep them stationed out in the middle of nowhere, they reasoned that they had the right to be comfortable while doing it.

“Randy...Randy...come on, it’s time to get up.”

There’s a little grunt at his side, somewhere between a ‘no’ and a general grumble of annoyance. It’s charming, though, and it doesn’t stop him from trying another little nudge. “C’mon, man. You know Illyria will be up our ass if we don’t clock in on time.”

“Let ‘em come.” Randy grumbles from beneath the covers. “I’d rather die warm.”

He’ll be up in the next ten minutes, he already knows. That’s how their morning usually goes. But he’s happy to take those extra ten minutes to get ready and clean up. His uniform is already folded up neat on the desktop, set out the night before in preparation.

He needs to call mother later today. It’s been months, but she’s still so excited about his ‘new’ job. It’s impossible to be annoyed with her when she sounds so happy, and it feels so good when she tells him how proud she is. It isn’t the most glamorous job, but as far as she’s concerned, he’s the First King of Illyria. He’s got to schedule a visit home soon, it’s been a while.

Ah, well, first things first. Zippers zipped, sleeves folded, shoes tied, every part of his uniform in place. 

Zappa pulls his cap off of the desk, tugging it on in one smooth motion. He sees himself smiling in the mirror, calm and confident.

It’s time for him to get to work.


End file.
